


How it Happens

by Amputation



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Based this off a comic I fell in love with on tumblr, Centers on Aziraphale and Crowley everyone else is just mentioned, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Fluff, Friendship to Love, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Britpicked, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Sorry Not Sorry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching, footnotes are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21196766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amputation/pseuds/Amputation
Summary: It starts with touches.alternativelyhow Aziraphale and Crowley finally figure it out.





	How it Happens

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo i have rewatched the TV series like 5 times now and i just couldn't help myself. ive dug through nearly 95 pages of the Aziraphale/Crowley tag on here and i have YET to find a fic based off [this](https://captainqueernerd.tumblr.com/post/188051791799/roman-kun-its-bound-to-happen-and-you-know-it) little comic by roman-kun on tumblr. im on there too, captainqueernerd if you care.
> 
> this is T because there's the fuck word in here.
> 
> i originally wanted 100k about this but i could only manage 7k-ish because i'm tired and trash. sorry. enjoy i guess.

Time passes as it usually does: with little loops and zigzags where it wants to; it’s fickle, you know. It passes exceptionally normally however, after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t. (Or the Armageddidn't. The Apocawhoops. Armageddon't. Apocanope. Well, you get the idea.) The Apocalypse That Was Supposed to Happen According To The Divine Plan Which Was Not The Ineffable Plan and Therefore Did Not Happen. Time after this major event decidedly did not happen rolled along as usual, the mundane of the day to day progressing with insistent normalcy.

Somehow all the crazy side effects of our Antichrist coming into his power that appeared across the globe were written off as so-called “mass hysteria" which obviously is absolute nonsense. Of course, it all _happened,_ time is fickle as we’ve already established, and it just tucked all those bitty little incidences away in an alternate timeline. For safe keeping until otherwise indicated. (An indeterminate indication, but an indication nonetheless.) The only ones who know the truth are the ones who were there, stood upon the tarmac and facing down the end of the world. Or rather a giant red behemoth crashing through the ground only to be schooled by its’ former kid. Embarrassing that, really. Almost makes one feel bad for Lucifer. (or Satan or whatever the Morningstar is going by these days.) _Almost._

Wisely, or perhaps ineffably, the Apocaverters all stay in touch in the days that turned to weeks to months after the Apocalmost. The Them continue to romp in Hogsback Wood and terrorize R.P. Tyler’s fruit trees. Anathema and Newt discussed the possibility of matrimony despite such a short acquaintance (Agnes is never wrong about these things, and she’d predicted great love between them. Best to go along with it all.) which was helped of course when Anathema miraculously finds her Visa extended. Madame Tracy and Sergeant Shadwell found themselves entangled as well, all power to the Madame of course, plain as day to anyone who happens to look. (Sergeant Shadwell is none the wiser of this arrangement, whether it be by willful ignorance or genuine obliviousness we will never know.)

So, as time rolls along, loops and zigzags notwithstanding, so do the lives of these rag-tag group of humans alongside our favorite renegade angel and demon. Said angel and demon have experienced several firsts in their burgeoning relationship since that day of victory over respective Head Offices, celebrated over champagne at the Ritz. Now, one might say “about fucking time, chaps” but let’s be real here for a moment. These two are the most oblivious lovesick fools to ever walk the earth, and they’ve been here since the Beginning. Nothing is ever easy with these two.

These firsts happen accidentally, no intent or active thought behind them when they start. Tiny touches here and there that had never been part of their friendship before. Walking side by side resulted in the brushing of their shoulders, tiny grazes of pinky against pinky. The passing of a wine bottle cause fingertips to graze and linger. Less than a foot apart, knees bumping as they perch and slouch respectively on their bench in St. James Park. An increase in physical contact that before The Almost End of the World would have been inconceivable for fear of retaliation from either Heaven or Hell. Fraternization was safe if they didn’t touch, didn’t leave traces of occult or ethereal on one another. But now? Now there were no such rules and the two moved into each other’s orbits as that proprietary shared wall of “keep him safe from Home Office" that stood between them for so long crumbled into dust.

It becomes purposeful a while after Armagedidn’t, with Aziraphale continuing his efforts of logging the stock restored and increased by our delightful Antichrist. Most of his original stock of first editions are present and accounted for, along with some new inclusions that make him chuckle. (Just William series, Biggles Goes to Mars, Jack Cade, Frontier Hero, 101 Things A Boy Can Do, Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea featured most prominently, but there was a whole slew of first edition children’s literature. Aziraphale quickly made up a whole children’s section seeing as they were all mint condition and quite rare indeed. He couldn’t refuse a gift from the _Antichrist_, after all.) During his perusal, he also comes across absolute rarities that he is delighted to find hidden amongst the stacks. Books he has been hunting for centuries for are suddenly within the confines of his beloved bookshop; first editions he’s been practically foaming at the mouth to add to his collection. All and all, Aziraphale is enjoying his renewed bookshop and chasing away customers brings normalcy back to his days.

Well, it’s all mostly normal. More of a new normal, so to speak. Their increased closeness has been a balm on his continued tension and paranoia left behind by that day on the tarmac and he likes to think Crowley feels the same. Aziraphale smiles to himself as he slides one of his misprint bibles back where it belongs after chasing out a particularly persistent customer. (Trying to buy the very bible he himself had altered. The _nerve _of some people, honestly!) He can hear the tap-tap-tapping away of a particular ginger tucked away in the back room of the shop and he slowly begins to make his way in that direction.

The demon Crowley has been spending more time in the bookshop than he used to, stopping by early in the day just to claim the sofa in the back room while Aziraphale plays at being an _actual_ bookseller. It’s comfortable, sharing space in a quiet camaraderie that makes the angel feel warm in his chest. They have never spent this much time together barring their stints as Nanny and Gardener, but with their respective Head Offices currently terrified of the two of them, the former need to hide their friendship (read: relationship) is vanished like the brown spots on Crowley’s traumatized plants.

Today, he peeks towards the back room where Crowley is lounging, sprawled across the ancient sofa with his usual artful carelessness. It’s like the demon has no clue how to sit like a normal person, as though his corporation just doesn’t cooperate like it should. (It doesn’t really, being that Crowley is a snake without limbs first and foremost and all that rot.) Crowley’s head is wedged against the armrest, one leg splayed up across the back of the sofa and the other draped over the opposite armrest. His lanky arms are locked at the elbow, thumbs tapping away as Crowley holds his latest edition mobile phone directly above his face. He’s focused intently on the phone, and judging by the flashes of color reflecting on the Valentino sunglasses and obnoxious music coming from the device he is playing one of those infernal “mobile games” he had taken credit for. (Flappy Bird was his.)

“Crowley, I’m going to set the kettle on!” he calls gently from the door, the only indication he’d drawn near.

The sound of his voice seems to jolt Crowley out of whatever stupor he’s thrown himself into and he startles so badly his entire body jerks and the phone sails out of his hands to collide quite spectacularly with his face. The _crack_ that echoes in the room makes Aziraphale wince, and he quickly approaches the cursing demon.

“Oh, my dear, are you quite alright?”

Hissing and spitting Crowley rubs his nose, pulling off his glasses to rub the bridge. The red marks are substantial and Aziraphale coos in sympathy. The angel hovers above the armrest of the sofa, reaching out with concern in his bright eyes. The moment his fingers brush Crowley’s angry skin the demon freezes and his angry hissing tirade is brought to an abrupt end with an eloquent:

“_Ngk._”

Now, this is a whole new _thing_ for our favorite demon. This touching lark. He’s not exactly used to it, what with Hell being _Hell_ and all. He wouldn’t want any of those bastards touching him, so he always went out of his way to avoid any sort of contact with other demons. He was doubly not used to Aziraphale’s touch outside of necessity. Why, one asks? Maybe it’s just the fact that his best friend (read: beloved, crush, darling Angel) hasn’t exactly been Mr Touchy McFeely over the past oh, _six thousand years_. His breath catches at the soft grazes of Aziraphale’s fingers, silently praising his manicurist because _fucking hell_ are those the softest hands Crowley has ever had the luxury of feeling.

Aziraphale tuts at him, those plush fingers dancing across his cheekbones and nose and leaving a tingling warmth behind. He wants to close his eyes and lean into the touch, the holiness radiating from those plump, soft hands to burn into his skin like a dichotomy. He doesn’t, his eyes wider than usual as he watches his Angel focus on removing the discomfort and angry marks from his flesh. The care with which Aziraphale touches him lights him up inside. It makes him feel valued, adored, _worthy._ It’s nothing short of divine and blasphemous as it is, he would worship at Aziraphale’s altar until his destruction at the inevitable heat death of the universe.

He blinks and the pressure of his Angel’s soft fingers lifts away although the tingling remains. Aziraphale smiles down at him, glowing with satisfaction. He hasn’t fully taken away his hands, and Crowley desperately tries to remain still. He stops his breathing (it’s not like he even needs to, but it’s one of those weird human things his corporation has started to believe it needs, like sleep) for fear of shattering the moment. Those hands cup his cheeks, the soothing warmth seeping into his skin. He closes his eyes and sighs out the breath he’s been holding with a hiss, unable to help himself as he leans slightly into the gentle heat of those fingers. Slowly, Aziraphale caresses his face once before pulling away. Crowley hates that he chases the sensation before he can catch himself.

“There. All better, dearest?”

Crowley hums in affirmation, unable to form proper words.

“You should really be more careful when playing with your cellular devices, Crowley,” he grumbles, “those things are nothing but trouble.”

Aziraphale straightens from where he’d been leaning over the armrest above Crowley’s head and turns with grace to head back towards the little kitchenette where the kettle awaits. The ginger demon listens to the sound of the pilot light catching and the clink of the kettle on the stovetop. He sinks into the sofa a bit more, burrowing himself in and closing his eyes in confusion and pleasure. Aziraphale has never touched him like that before, skin to skin contact with so much intent behind it. It had shocked him for sure but oh was it so, so enjoyable. Even if the divinity burns just a little too much on the uncomfortable side. It feels right, kind of like coming home. He swings his feet to the floor.

“Oi, Angel! Still have that Darjeeling we liked from that time in India? Ehh, 1856 was it?”

They continue to touch one another in the coming weeks: fingertips lacing loosely together atop the tables they eat at, leaning into one another at the National Gallery while whispering recollections of different artists they’d known through the ages. Crowley pressing his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder as he laughs heartily during a performance of Much Ado that the angel had surprised him with tickets for. Hands atop elbows as they peer through the glass of the display case at the new patisserie and grasping sleeves in excitement at the emergence of a freshly sliced piece of cake that _looks absolutely scrummy, Crowley! _It’s all new and exciting. The ease with which they slip into this shift of more tactile friendship is not lost on either of them, and both often wonder just where the boundaries fall.

It’s Crowley who initiates the next major intentional touch. The angel and demon decide to spend a lazy afternoon strolling through St. James Park after lunch, Aziraphale clutching a bag of peas in his arms as he walks alongside Crowley. They meander more than usual, taking their time to enjoy the day and each other’s company and dip into a friendly debate on historical musicians and modern music before arriving at their usual bench to feed the ducks.

“Look, Angel, we’ve been over this. _Velvet Underground_ isn’t be-bop! You just don’t like anything from this century!”

Aziraphale huffs, “I like _some_ modern music, I’ll have you know.”

Crowley arches a single eyebrow over the edges of his sunglasses, snapping his fingers to dunk a duck.

“Oh really? Name one band or song you like that isn’t over a hundred years old.”

The angel furrows his brows as he reorients the duck Crowley just sank, “um, that one song with that Noble chap. Nightingales Singing?”

The demon makes a conceding noise. That particular tune is certainly within the century. Barely.

“Okay, fair. You don’t like any music after 1940, then. That just means you’re biased, Angel!”

“I am not biased, Crowley! I simply have discerning taste.”

“You really ought to listen to more modern music, Angel. There are some solid songsmiths out there. Practically poetry these days.”

Aziraphale scoffs, “I doubt it.”

Crowley rolls his eyes from behind his glasses and slouches back against the bench. They’re sitting closer than they usually do, practically thigh-to-thigh. Crowley can feel the heat that he’s noticed Aziraphale is constantly radiating and the reptile part of his brain wants to wrap itself around the angel and soak it all in. Since shifting to his rather large and terrifying serpent form in public is probably a rubbish idea, he compromises. Crowley’s right arm snakes out on the back of the bench, easing slowly around his angel’s back as he coos at the swarm of water fowl that have descended upon them. He moves at a glacial pace, but every inch closer he gets, he can feel the warmth grow stronger and his personal temptation only increases.

Hesitantly, his arm comes to rest against the top of the angel’s shoulder, draped in a forced casual position. He doesn’t startle. Crowley is pleasantly surprised and slowly relaxes, releasing tension and doubt he wasn’t aware he was holding. Aziraphale is still focused on the ducks, tossing handfuls of peas and talking to them as though he personally knows each one. (This is entirely possible, as angels are beings of love and ought to love all of God’s creatures great and small.) Crowley is entirely too fond of Aziraphale like this, radiating so much happiness it increases the amount of warmth against Crowley’s arm. He lets his eyes close, leaning in a bit closer to the angel. His fingers twitch and graze against the cotton-soft of the pale curls resting at the base of Aziraphale’s skull. He freezes, both because he’s suddenly confronted with the knowledge of what those glorious curls actually feel like (he’s only been thinking about this since, oh, forever) and simultaneously terrified Aziraphale will scold him for taking such liberties.

“Oh, Crowley, my dear! Your fingers are positively freezing!”

The angel turns his head to the offending hand and Crowley tenses again, beginning to pull his arm away, an apology on his tongue. Aziraphale grasps his hand in his soft grip, removing it from behind his shoulders and pulling the appendage _towards_ him. His body turns, thighs and knees pressing against Crowley’s. The demon allows himself to lean into the angel, too stunned to argue or do anything but be led by this perfect being. He watches with wide eyes as Aziraphale reaches for his other hand where it rests in a fist on his thigh. He holds his breath as his angel slowly rubs his thumbs against the skin of his knuckles, heat erupting under his flesh where Aziraphale presses. Slowly, that warmth begins to travel up his arms until it settles somewhere in his chest, filling him with a low rolling fever that feels closer to heaven than he’s been since the Fall. He swallows.

“I ought to pay more attention to your more… serpentine traits, my dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs sounding more upset with himself than anything.

“S’nothin’, Angel. Jus’ cold blooded.”

Aziraphale turns his bright gaze to Crowley’s locking eyes despite the shield of his sunglasses.

“I find I disagree. It certainly isn’t nothing if it means my best friend is anything less than comfortable.”

Crowley opens his mouth to dispute the statement; it’s just a little chill, nothing to be worried about. It’s not like it’s snowing, anyway. He may be a serpent but he’s a little better at regulating his temperature in his favorite humanoid shape. Besides, Aziraphale is so warm he hardly notices anyway. He wants to argue, but the fight goes out of him as Aziraphale brings his hands to his lips (oh, so warm, soft, plush, G- Sa- Somebody help him he’s gonna’ discorporate) and presses gentle kisses to the palms of his hands.

Crowley shivers despite the sudden absence of cold in his entire body and the moment is over far too soon. Aziraphale lets one of Crowley’s hands fall from his grip, standing in front of the demon with a fond smile on his face and a slight flush on his soft cheeks.

“Let’s go ho—ah, back to the bookshop, my dear. I’ll make you something warm,” he says with that insistent tone that books absolutely no argument. Crowley nods dumbly, struck by how beautiful Aziraphale is with the light illuminating him from behind and his white curls (and he knows now how soft they are, _fuck_) glowing like a halo.

“Y-Yeah, okay, whatever you want, Angel.”

Aziraphale beams and hauls Crowley to his feet with strength that always surprises the demon. They head off towards the bookshop, where no doubt a kettle is already set to boil in the tiny kitchenette. It isn’t until they walk through the front door that Crowley realizes they’ve been holding hands this whole time. It’s enough to bring a stupid grin to his face that doesn’t fade until late in the evening.

They hold hands a lot after that walk back to the bookshop. They hold hands in the Bentley when they take drives in the countryside, searching for picnic spots. They interlace fingers at dinners (to the absolute delight of the staff at the Ritz, who’ve had a betting pool about their relationship for _years_) and lunches. Palm to palm, they stroll through the park with Crowley gnawing at his ice lolly and Aziraphale licking at his White 99. They spend some time at Crowley’s Mayfair flat, holding hands on the great white leather sofa while Crowley introduces (forces, really) Aziraphale to The Golden Girls and The Great British Bake Off on his obscenely modern entertainment center. To Aziraphale’s surprise, he enjoys both shows. Crowley is smug about it the whole time, especially when his angel mentions getting a television for the bookshop, citing _I must know what happens next_.

It becomes status quo.

They’re perched together on the sofa in the back of the bookshop one evening, Crowley lounging with his head in Aziraphale’s lap as the angel reads. It has been a long day, filled with customers and irritation quelled only by a delightful sushi lunch that the demon insisted on. (Of course, he didn’t consume anything aside from his sake, the flash bastard.) Crowley has his glasses off and his eyes closed, basking in the angel’s natural warmth. His hands rest on his chest, one leg over the armrest and the other on the back of the sofa. Aziraphale sits as proper as usual, back straight and those tiny reading glasses perched on his nose. The only sound in the shop is the papery whisper of pages turning and the tiny huffs of breath they each take.

Crowley is drifting between wakefulness and sleep when he is taken off guard. Aziraphale somehow manages to get a hand in Crowley’s short hair, plump fingers carding softly through the artfully tossed strands. Crowley shudders and presses into the touch, humming his approval. Aziraphale pauses in his movements and the demon cracks open an eye to look up at him. Bright eyes meet reptilian gold and something like approval and permission passes between them before Aziraphale’s fingers continue their gentle journey through ginger strands. Crowley allows his lids to flutter closed in contentment as those soothing gestures dance across his scalp.

He’s always been rather proud of his hair. It had been brighter before his Fall, closer to a red-gold than an auburn but having Aziraphale take interest without being prompted soothes the ache of regret. Soft fingers trace circles around the soft skin by his ears, a pinky grazing over the snake emblem burned into his cheek. He hisses and the motions stop for a moment, and it seems Aziraphale realizes it wasn’t a bad hiss at all. The caresses start up again. It’s all rather domestic, Crowley thinks. He’s never had anyone play with his hair and rub his head before and he’s finding he rather enjoys it. It makes him feel treasured, loved. He hums and presses into Aziraphale’s touch as his manicured nails scrape gently over his scalp. He wishes absently his hair was longer, regretting the short cut for the first time since he chopped his tresses off.

“Mn, been thinkin’…”

“Hm? Have you, my dear? What about?”

“M’hair. Might grow it out ‘gain.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, running his nails down the skin behind his ears. Crowley hums louder, pressing into the touch.

“That would be quite nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” he replies absently, carding fingers through auburn tresses, “I’ve always thought you were rather fetching with long hair. Bit of a shock when you chose this style, not that it doesn’t suit you, of course.”

Crowley hums, pleased. He’s tickled that Aziraphale actually has a preference and it affirms his decision to let his ginger hair grow out once again.

“As long as you don’t play with facial hair again. Goodness, there’s been enough of that for the next six thousand years, thank you!”

Crowley guffaws loudly and raises a hand to give Aziraphale a gentle shove in his closest shoulder. He opens his eyes in time to catch the fond smile the angel gives him.

“Rude, Angel!”

“Simply the truth, my dear!”

Crowley scoffs, a smile on his lips, “Didn’t know y’had that strong an opinion.”

“Well, not so much strong as right, Crowley.”

He laughs again. The rest of the night passes with warmth and quiet affection. Aziraphale kisses his hand again when he gets up to head back to his flat.

Casual intimacy becomes so commonplace that humans start to take closer note. Customers comment on Aziraphale’s “partner” and the café owner across the way refers to Aziraphale as Crowley’s “boyfriend”. Even one particularly bold waiter at the Ritz refers to them as husbands (and seems excessively smug when Aziraphale and Crowley flush and sputter but don’t _actually_ correct him) which throws them off a bit at first, but honestly what does it matter what labels the humans decided to assign them? It stops shocking them when an assumption is made after a time. Crowley starts crowding into Aziraphale’s space, orbiting the angel more closely than previously. He develops a trend (that will become habit with a little more time) of grasping his angel’s shoulders and peeking around Aziraphale’s head to see whatever has his angel’s attention. Aziraphale huffs in fond annoyance when Crowley starts whinging that he’s bored, but he never asks the demon to stop. Crowley plays with distance in these instances, sometimes hovering close but not touching while other times pressing so close that he’s cheek-to-cheek with his angel. Sometimes when he’s close but not too close, Aziraphale will turn his head _just so_ and Crowley can see those plush lips quirk up as he makes some snarky comment.

Aziraphale loves this contact, not that he’d ever tell Crowley. He enjoys when Crowley leans into his space as he works on repairing the binding of a particularly old first edition, the demon’s woodsmoke leather red wine scent mingling so well with the aroma of aged paper and glue. It makes Aziraphale feel warm and safe, wrapped up in the things he loves most: old books and Crowley his best friend. He’s toyed with the idea of inviting Crowley to move into the bookshop as they spend more time there than at the demon’s Mayfair flat (that ultra-modern jail cell, all hard lines and zero comfort, Aziraphale doesn’t understand how Crowley can even live there. To be fair, it was chosen and designed to be less of a home and more of a base camp, a place to sleep when needed. Crowley has never considered it home, home is where Aziraphale is.) and the tiny bedroom upstairs hasn’t been touched since he moved into the building back in 1800. It would make so much more sense, now that they’re on their own sides and he would truly enjoy having Crowley around permanently.

“Hey, Angel? Ever thoughta’ getting’ some plants in here?”

“Why no, my dear boy,” he replies absently from where he’s working on his latest rebinding attempt, “I’m rubbish with plants; do you know how many times I had to miracle those blasted rosebushes back to life at the Dowling’s estate?”

“Sure do, Angel. It was a disaster,” Crowley drawls, the woodsmoke leather red wine aroma drawing closer, “but you know I’d take care of ‘em for you, ‘m good with plants. Brighten up the place a bit, but not too much. Somebody forbid you actually sell a book, eh?”

Aziraphale harrumphs, not looking up from his project, “you sound as though you’ve made a decision. Well, don’t purchase new plants on my account. Why not just bring over those terrified ones from your flat? If they can survive there and remain so lush, I’m sure they’ll do just as well here.”

There’s a long pause, no sound in the room aside from the rustling and creaking of Aziraphale’s binding efforts. Crowley clears his throat.

“Err, ssssounds like you’re asssking me to move in with you, Angel.”

“So it does, my dear,” he replies, frowning as he examines the stitching in the binding. Crowley’s sibilants only get so long when he’s upset about something and Aziraphale feels the sharp burn of regret for saying anything. It’s foolish but he figures he might as well make his pitch. He draws a great breath, “It only makes sense, no? We spend so little time at your flat, Crowley, and it seems such a waste to have separate spaces when we remain in each other’s company until wee hours of the morning. You may as well use the bedroom upstairs, I certainly don’t.”

He finally looks up from his binding project, finding Crowley standing by his desk looking entirely too much like a fish out of water.

“Oh dear, do close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.”

“Y-You’re really assssking me to move in? You have a bedroom? Ssssince when?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes at Crowley, “since I purchased the building, silly serpent. You know I don’t sleep; it only makes sense for you to have it.”

Sunglasses slip down the demon’s nose, exposing wide reptilian eyes. Slowly he saunters over, hips moving and shifting like no hips should; did Crowley even have joints? Sometimes he wondered. Aziraphale resists the urge to roll his eyes again at the forced predatory strut. The demon lays his hands flat on the desk, leaning into his angel’s space until their noses nearly brush, a smirk spreading across his lips.

“So long as you don’t coddle the plants, you got yourself a deal, Angel.”

Aziraphale _beams_.

They move in together after Crowley sells his flat (and most of his ultra-modern furniture; he keeps his Mona Lisa sketch and the eagle parapet and other small things, but Aziraphale puts his foot down on that _terrible_ statue and the _hideous_ throne-like chair the demon kept in his office) and they find cohabitation easy. They settle into a rhythm, and it feels as natural as breathing. Aziraphale begins his days early, spending time doing morning inventory and sipping milky tea with his chosen book until Crowley slithers out of bed around eleven. They go for lunch around noon and spend the afternoon apart: Aziraphale running the bookshop while Crowley lurks in the back room doing Someone knows what, meandering down to the shops, or out in the Bentley doing _demon things, Angel, gotta’ keep the skills sharp_. They go to dinner together when Aziraphale closes for the night and then retire to the back room to drink or snuggle (as there is quite literally no other word for what they do, honestly) on the sofa until Crowley decides to drag himself up to the bed he miracle’d over from his old flat.

Sometimes Aziraphale doesn’t open the shop at all and Crowley drives the two of them up to Tadfield to visit with their dear Apocaverters. Sometimes Aziraphale leaves Crowley to his own devices to take tea with Madame Tracy. Sometimes Crowley spends the mornings doing Somebody knows what. Sometimes they don’t retire to the back room, instead going to the opera or the Globe or taking a stroll through one of London’s parks. Sometimes after drinking, Crowley takes them out to that late-night hole-in-the-wall chip shop Aziraphale not-so-secretly loves when he’s three sheets to the wind. Their days are varied but it feels right to them, this cohabitation becoming so easy the both independently wonder why they hadn’t done it sooner. (They wonder and remember: Home Offices used to be a thing, angels and demons and get behind me foul fiend and all that rot. It all seems so silly now that they simply forget how nuanced their relationship used to be.)

It’s been a peaceful morning and Aziraphale is settled in at his desk working on some acquisition logging. It’s mundane and tedious but he’s always been determined to do it _right_. His favorite mug is sat steaming out of the way of his precious books but still within reach, the iridescent glaze on the angel wings glinting a little in the natural light of the ‘shop. He’s focused on transcribing one particular acquisition into his log book when he hears the thud-thud-thud of Crowley sauntering down the stairs. He’s still quietly amused that the demon doesn’t slither down the stairs, what with how those impossible hips fight physics. Occult magics, and all that.

Crowley is feeling restless this morning. He woke feeling _itchy_, which is usually a good indicator that he needs to start up some low-grade evil. He can usually get by with gluing two-pound coins to the sidewalk outside the bookshop or trolling some easily riled humans on YouTube comments or Facebook. (Sometimes Instagram, but he’s actually got a pretty solid account full of pictures of his best plants with ominous commentary. It actually has a ton of followers. Doesn’t wanna’ mess that up. Buzzfeed has theories about him, “Scary Instagram Plant Man” is a great moniker. Also Buzzfeed is one of his, so…) But when he gets that _itch_ he knows he needs to something a bit bigger than usual. Demons feed off evil acts, unlike Angels who don’t require good actions to maintain normal behavior. God gave them the shit end of the stick on that front.

He’s scrolling through his phone looking for events going on today that he can mess with as he rounds the corner into the ‘shop.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his work but his body leans towards the sound of Crowley’s voice.

“Yes, dear?”

Crowley saunters up next to the angel’s desk, still focused on his phone. He’s found a few suitable events that he could absolutely wreck and is still scrolling through to see if there are any other options.

“I’ll be out for a bit, got demon things to do.”

His angel doesn’t look up, humming his understanding, “Mm, alright. I’ll be here,” he says before raising his head slightly, tilting his chin up slightly while keeping his eyes on the page, “Will we still be able to dine at the Ritz tonight?”

Crowley reaches out while still gazing at his phone to rub circles onto the angel’s upper back, an action that he’s found soothes the angel, “Of course, don’t worry.”

He leans down, Aziraphale leans up and they meet in the middle, lips slotting together readily. Crowley’s hand grips the back of his angel’s jacket, bunching the fabric and Aziraphale’s fingers rest on Crowley’s wrist, gripping gently as his thumb rubs gentle circles. Crowley’s glasses push up his nose into his forehead from the angle but neither demon nor angel seem to notice. It’s sweet, slow, and natural. The action feels so practiced it’s smooth and effortless. The kiss lasts only a few seconds before they separate and focus back on the work at hand.

“Won’t be long!” Crowley calls as he saunters out the door, the bell jangling as his gaze locks back on his phone.

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale replies, eyes once again locked on the transcription as he reaches out for his favorite angel wing mug, finding it still hot as his fingers wrap around it.

The Bentley obediently swings her driver side open.

Aziraphale lifts the mug to his lips.

Crowley peels away from the curb at an inappropriate speed for the streets of SoHo.

An angel takes a sip of his perfect tea.

“HOLY _FUCK_!” a demon shrieks with a red face, gripping the wheel of his trusty chariot.

Simultaneously, a furiously blushing angel spits tea across the bookshop and soaks his transcript in the process.

_That’s_ never happened before.

That is certainly new.

They’re going to have to talk about this.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Aziraphale closes the shop as soon as he opens it, face flaming as he stumbles to the back room leaving his ruined transcript behind on his desk. His hands are shaking as he falls unceremoniously into his armchair opposite the sofa. It was better than he’d ever imagined. He holds out a hand and a bottle of wine appears. He can’t stop thinking about the feeling of Crowley’s lips against his, so soft and supple. The flutter of his pulse beneath his fingers. He snaps his fingers and no sooner is it uncorked that the angel is chugging an excellent vintage straight from the bottle like a heathen.

Crowley nearly kills at least fifty different humans in his frantic drive out of SoHo. He does his tempting and his mischief in a blur, his traitorous heart throbbing in his chest the whole time. He can’t stop thinking about the way those plush lips slotted against his, so soft and smooth. The Bentley starts blasting Queen.

> _I’m caught in a dream_
> 
> _And my dream’s come true_
> 
> _So hard to believe_
> 
> _This is happening to me_
> 
> _An amazing feeling_
> 
> _Comin’ through—_

Crowley throws the black beast into park illegally outside a bar. He leans back in his seat, staring sightlessly at the roof of the Bentley. He’d kissed Aziraphale. He’d kissed his angel, and he hadn’t been smote dead. Hadn’t discorporated. The Bentley croons on. He’d dreamt of that kiss, never imagined it happening like _that._ Like an _accident_. Crowley turns the car off with a snap, stumbling into the bar and throwing himself in a stool like a marionette with its strings cut. With a snap of his fingers the bartender slides him some top shelf whiskey and Crowley drinks straight from the bottle.

They both get ridiculously drunk. Absolutely plastered. Pissed to the point of incoherency.

Crowley can barely stand as he stumbles from the bar.

Aziraphale is half in his armchair and half on the floor.

Crowley looks at the Bentley and crawls into the back seat, face down in the leather.

Aziraphale knocks over one of his many empty bottles of wine, snorting a laugh as he tries to get his feet under him.

The Bentley, being loyal to her favorite human-shaped occult being, drives herself to the bookshop carefully. She has precious cargo, after all.

The gramophone in the corner of the shop starts playing the _be-bop_ that the Bentley always plays and Aziraphale stumbles over to it, shushing it all the way.

> _Ha ha ha ha it’s magic_
> 
> _What ha ha ha_
> 
> _I get so lonely, lonely, lonely, yeah_
> 
> _I want to love you_
> 
> _It’s magic_

Crowley bursts through the shop doors, stumbling into Aziraphale and knocking them both to the floor. The gramophone plays on.

> _Love you love you_
> 
> _Yeah, give it to me!_

“Hey, tha’s Que—Kwe—Bentley music!” the demon sputters, face smashed into the floor.

“Bebop,” Aziraphale whines from where he’s laying half on Crowley, “don’t own bebop.”

“S’playin’ tho,” Crowley whines, squirming until Aziraphale rolls off of him. They lie side by side on the floor.

“M’drunk.”

“Mm. Me too.”

“Love you.”

“Mm. Me too.”

“M’kay. G’night. M’sleepy now.”

“Mm, you’re on the floor,” Aziraphale grumbles, shoving his demon until said demon moans and rolls away, “G’upstairs!”

“Dun wanna!”

“Don’t make me ca-carry you,” the angel hiccups, pouting as he pokes Crowley in the ribs.

“Y’won’t!”

“Will!”

“Dare you!”

“F-Fine!”

Aziraphale pushes himself to his feet and staggers forward before hoisting Crowley over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Crowley shrieks in a most un-demonly fashion.

“’Ziraphale!! Lookit yer arse!”

The demon slaps it with a sad drunken swing, but to be fair it’s a very good arse.

“Stop it! M’takin’ you to bed!”

Crowley merely cackles and proceeds to play the bongos on Aziraphale’s behind.

The angel slowly makes his way up the stairs to the bedroom, accidentally hitting Crowley’s head on the bannister one too many times. The demon doesn’t seem to notice and once the door at the top of the stairs is kicked open, Aziraphale trips over his own feet and hurls Crowley onto the mattress while he himself becomes acquainted with the bedroom floor.

“Oww,” Aziraphale moans, sitting up and pouting despondently to the sprawled shape on the bed.

“C’mere,” he hears Crowley whine, “y’hurt lemme fix it!”

Aziraphale doesn’t question the whine and shuffles over to the bed on his knees, grabbing the duvet and dragging himself onto the bed beside Crowley. The demon pokes his sore nose with a “boop” noise and Aziraphale bursts into giggles which Crowley follows him into.

They stop laughing after some time and Crowley shuffles closer, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s throat before tucking his head below the angel’s chin. Said angel buries his nose in his demon’s hair, kissing the red strands while returning the embrace and huffs happily.

“Love you.”

“L’ve you too.”

They fall asleep in one another’s arms.

They awaken in one another’s arms, painfully sober. Aziraphale stares into Crowley’s lovely auburn hair as their drunken shenanigans filter back into his memory. He flushes brightly, swallowing as nerves creep back into his awareness. His body is trembling slightly and he can tell he’s positively _glowing_ with love.

“Mm, Angel, what..? Oh, _fuck._”

Ah. Crowley is awake, Aziraphale thought through the haze of panic and happiness.

“Uh… what’ssss happening?”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, tugging the demon closer and burying his face into the demon’s hair. Crowley lets out a whine that sounds part terrified and part pleased.

“We kissed,” the angel whispers into Crowley’s red mane.

“Oh, _fuck_ that wasn’t a dream?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, refusing to look at Crowley.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

They’re silent for a long time and slowly Aziraphale pulls back enough to look at Crowley’s face. His glasses are skewed crooked on his flushed face and it would be cute if those eyes weren’t full of fear and doubt and _desire_. Aziraphale swallows again, throat suddenly dry. Gingerly, he reaches out and gently plucks the sunglasses from where they’re crushed into Crowley’s face. The demon scrunches his face up and the expression punches Aziraphale in the gut by how vulnerable and _adorable_ it is.

“Crowley, I…”

The demon’s face shutters, going blank although his eyes remain full of fear.

“I…”

The longer he stumbles for words, the more Crowley retreats. He can’t have that.

With desperation he reaches out, hands gently holding his demon’s lovely face. Those gorgeous eyes widen, yellow overtaking white as the sclera bleeds out. He leans in, tilting his head and flushing brightly, asking permission without words. His eyes dart down to the demon’s slightly parted lips before returning his bright gaze to Crowley’s. His demon swallows, those vertical pupils dilating before his very eyes. The demon lunges.

They kiss, and this time it’s desperate but no less full of love. Crowley’s hands wind their way into Aziraphale’s short white curls, gripping gently but with a need that steals the angel’s breath. Aziraphale leans back from the kiss for a moment before diving back in, one hand fisting in Crowley’s short red hair at the base of the demon’s skull. Their lips slot at a slightly different angle and a startled moan escapes Crowley, the demon pressing even closer. Someone’s tongue traces someone’s lips and suddenly the kiss is wet and desperate and they can’t get close enough. Someone cries first and the other follows. They pull back pressing foreheads together as they sob and grip each other close.

Aziraphale is deliriously happy.

Crowley isn’t convinced this isn’t a dream.

The angel wipes away his demon’s tears, tilting his chin so he can look his beloved in the eyes.

“I may have confessed while intoxicated, my dearest, but it was no less true. I love you.”

Crowley inhales sharply.

“I-I think I may have loved you for millennia, to be truthful. I only knew for certain when you handed me my books,” he murmurs, his body glowing as he allows himself to feel the love he’s had for this demon fully for the first time since 1941, “a little demonic miracle of your own, you’d said.”

“_Ngk._”

“You stole my heart completely that day, my dearest. I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long.”

Crowley is silent, hot tears continuing to spill down his cheeks, through his parted lips Aziraphale can see those sharp fangs and the split of his serpent’s tongue. As he caresses his demon’s cheeks, he feels the ripple of scales under his fingertips.

“Eden,” Crowley chokes out.

“My dear?”

“You gave away your ssssword,” he continues, the deep red flush travelling down his neck to the patch of chest visible through his shirt, “that’ssss when I wasssss lossssst.”

Aziraphale laughs joyfully and presses kisses all across Crowley’s beautiful face.

“Oh, my dear, we’ve been absolute fools, haven’t we?”

Crowley laughs wetly, gently bringing his thumb to brush over Aziraphale’s kiss swollen lips.

“Maybe, but we’re here now. Better late than never, yeah?”

Aziraphale smiles.

It doesn’t happen with swelling violins.

It doesn’t happen in a moment of passion.

It doesn’t happen after a heated argument.

It happens simply, naturally.

Their first of many kisses.

Easy as breathing.

In a moment of peace.

And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Eventually when they settle into that little cottage at the end of the lane somewhere in the South Downs, Crowley covered in dirt from digging in his own person Eden as Aziraphale hands him a glass of ice water while taking a break from his baking escapades, bending down and allowing himself to be smeared with earth as he kisses his husband beneath the afternoon sun.

**Author's Note:**

> too many footnotes, the HTML was being a shit so you get parentheses instead i'm too tired to try and trouble shoot this crap
> 
> song is I Was Born to Love You by Queen, obvs.


End file.
